Camy Tang's Blog, page 154

Excerpt - Trail of Lies by Margaret Daley

Trail of Lies

by

Margaret Daley



As the mother of a beautiful daughter and the wife of a wealthy entrepreneur, Melora Hudson seemed happy. No one knew about the secrets hidden behind closed doors—secrets Melora was forced to keep. Now, two years after her husband's disappearance, the truth may be exposed. His body has been found, and everyone has questions. Texas Ranger Daniel Boone Riley comes to find answers, and stays to protect the woman and child who win his heart. But the terror of Melora's past isn't over. Her late husband's old "associates" want her to carry his secrets to her grave.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Melora Hudson punched in her alarm code to turn the security system off, then tossed her keys on the kitchen counter. All she wanted to do was sink into a chair and drink a cup of hot tea after her exhausting week. But as she moved toward the kettle on the stove, a sound—something hitting the tiled floor—came from the living room and froze her in mid-stride. Tension whipped through her. Until her cat shot through the doorway and launched himself into her arms.



"Okay, Patches, what have you gotten into this time?"



His cry—like a baby's—protested her scolding.



Melora cuddled the fifteen-pound white cat against her chest and started for the living room. Just what she needed—another broken lamp or, like the last time, a crystal vase. As she approached the entrance, she mentally prepared for the devastation, realizing she could never get rid of the animal because her daughter loved Patches. And so did she.



A few steps into the room, Melora stopped, scanning the large expanse for any sign of what had made the crashing noise.



The desk chair was overturned at the far end. Strange. How had Patches done that? She placed the large cat on the tiled floor and headed across the room. Nothing he did should surprise her anymore. She began to pick up the chair while Patches weaved in and out of her legs, but stopped. Her nape prickled; unease streaked down her spine. The quiet of the house, usually a balm, was now ominous. She glanced toward the study. She wasn't alone.



That thought bolted her to the floor for a few precious seconds before she whirled and ran toward the back porch off the great room. Halfway to the exit, she noticed the lock wasn't turned right.



The door was unlocked. Alarm squeezed her chest.



She peered sideways and spied a wiry, medium-sized man wearing a black ski mask barreling toward her. Pushing herself faster, she reached for the knob. Two feet away.



He tackled her. The impact of the cool tiles knocked the breath from her, pain radiating through her. His body trapped her beneath him. All the fear from that break-in two years ago came to the foreground.



She twisted and bucked, trying to shove him off her. She drew in a gulp of air. Finally, her protest ripped from her throat and ricocheted off the tall ceilings, filling the room with her terror.



He slapped her across the face. "Shut up."



Texas Ranger Daniel Boone Riley turned his white Ford 150 truck down the road that led to the Hudson's house in Lone Star Estates where many wealthy San Antonians lived. He should know. His family mansion wasn't but a mile from here.



He'd seen Melora Hudson, the widow, at her husband's funeral a couple of days before. A picture of a five-foot, six-inch, willowy woman materialized in his mind. While she'd stood at the gravesite, her red hair with golden highlights had caught the sun's rays, accentuating the long curls about her beautiful face—a solemn face, appropriate for a funeral. Until he'd locked gazes with her for a few seconds and something akin to fear had flashed into her sea-green eyes. She'd immediately looked away, but he'd seen the apprehension.



What did she know about her husband's death? What was she hiding?



He was here to find out. He'd spent the last few days learning everything he could about the woman. Although Axle Hudson had been murdered two years ago and his body only found last month and not identified until the previous week, the man's death was tied to the recent murder of Captain Gregory Pike of the Texas Rangers' Company D. Daniel would stop at nothing to discover that link. Gregory had been a good friend as well as his boss. There was no way any Ranger in Company D would allow his murder to go unsolved—even though few leads had been uncovered in the month since Greg's death. They knew his murder was connected to an elusive group of people called the Lions of Texas who dealt in illegal activities—drugs among them. Had Axle Hudson been involved in drug dealing? One of many questions Daniel wanted answered.



He parked his truck in front of the large, Spanish-style house with stucco accents and a tile roof. It fit into its surroundings and shouted wealth—typical of what he'd known of Axle Hudson, a flamboyant playboy who had finally married Melora Madison, the niece of prominent businessman Tyler Madison, in a wedding that had been the event of the social season in San Antonio six years ago.



As he strode toward the porch, a scream rent the air. A woman's scream coming from the house. He pulled his Wilson Combat pistol from his waist holster and rushed toward the porch. When he tried the handle, the door was locked. He took a few steps back, started to lift his leg to kick the heavy solid door and realized he wouldn't be able to budge it.



Daniel needed an entrance into the house other than the sturdy front door. Swiveling to the right, he jogged toward the side, placing a call to the sheriff for back up. He found a flimsier door next to the three-car garage and put all his strength behind kicking in the wooden structure. It exploded inward, and he burst into the mudroom.



The pressure on Melora's chest caused dots to dance before her eyes. Sweat coated her face, her body.



Her attacker's dark gaze trailed down her, leaving her chilled. With her arms pinned to her side and the man's heavy weight on her, fear drenched her like her perspiration.



"I won't hurt you if you keep quiet." The raspy voice, as if he'd smoked one too many cigarettes, didn't give his words a ring of truth.



His smelly odor assailed her. Nausea roiled in her stomach. "What do you want?" she managed to squeak out, so glad her daughter was playing at a friend's. If Kaitlyn had been here…The thought chilled her blood.



The intruder withdrew a switchblade and flicked it open. "Information. It was about time you got home."



Melora's eyes grew round, focused totally on the knife he held before her. Not far from her heart. Her throat.



"Where's the flash drive your husband always had on him?"



"I don't know." The flash drive Axle wore around his neck? What had he done to cause this continual nightmare?



The blade came closer. "There are two dumb things you can do. Not give me the flash drive and talk to the police about this or anything concerning your husband's affairs. Are you smart? I'd hate your little girl to be without a mommy. Where's the flash drive? It wasn't found with your husband's body. It has to be here."



The gleaming metal commanded her full attention. Until a boom rocked the air. It sounded as though something had slammed against the wall.



The intruder jerked up, his focus on the entrance into the living room.



Melora grabbed the split second of distraction and shoved upward with all her strength. The man, taken by surprise, teetered above her, the knife clanging to the floor.



Totally in cop mode with his gun clasped in his hand, Daniel quickly assessed the kitchen and moved toward the hallway. A noise to his right—like a scuffle—drew him into the living room. On the far side, a man with a ski mask leaped to his feet and spun around.



"Halt! State Police," Daniel shouted, aiming his gun.



Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Melora sprawled on the floor, her eyes huge in her pale face, a knife a few feet from her on the floor. She scrambled back from her attacker.



As though he had nothing to lose, the intruder sprang for the porch door, wrenched it open, then plunged through the opening.



As Daniel raced toward the exit after the man, he glanced at Melora. "Are you okay?"



"Yes." Her answer came out with a shaky rasp, her face leached of all color.



"I called the sheriff. Help is on the way."



He hurried after the attacker who swung over the railing and landed in the grass below, then shot toward the side of the house. Daniel took the same route. The second his feet touched the ground, he sprinted forward, rounding the pool and cabana not far behind the assailant.



When the man scaled the fence separating the Hudson's property from the neighbor's, his foot caught on a wooden railing, and he tumbled over. Daniel pushed himself faster, eating up several yards between them before the intruder hustled to his feet and continued toward a vehicle parked on the street.



Daniel sailed over the same fence, adrenaline spurring him on. Determined to catch the burglar, he raced across the neighbor's front lawn. When the assailant reached a white Honda Accord, he dragged the door open and lunged inside.



The car started, and the intruder floored the gas, shrieking away from the curb. Daniel zeroed in on the license plate and got a partial number, the rest obscured by dirt. He lifted his gun to aim at the back left tire, knowing the possibility of stopping the car was slim.



Too late. The vehicle disappeared around the corner.



Daniel dug into his pocket and withdrew his cell, calling the suspect's car and partial plate number into the sheriff's office. Then he trudged back to the Hudson's house, which sat on several acres of land. The picture of Melora on the floor, afraid, her shirt pulled out of her slacks, her long hair tousled, her body quaking, haunted his thoughts. The visualization rocked him with anger.



What was going on? That question plagued him the whole way back as he retraced his steps to see if the suspect had dropped anything in his mad dash to get away. Nothing.



Climbing the steps to the deck, Daniel holstered his pistol. When he entered the living room, he discovered Melora standing not far from where she'd been attacked. Her shirt was tucked into her pants, and she was running her trembling hand through her hair. The pale cast to her face, and the large, round eyes spoke of a woman who had been frightened for her life.



He needed answers, ones his fellow Ranger Oliver Drew hadn't gotten when he had interviewed her last week after Axle Hudson's remains had finally been identified. "Did this have anything to do with your husband's murder?" Daniel covered the short distance between them.



She backed up, her arms crossing her chest. "I think…" Her tongue ran over her lips. "I think it was just a burglar."



He couldn't shake the feeling something was going on here beyond a mere robbery, especially since Melora kept evading eye contact. "What was he after?"



Her mouth pinched into a frown. "I don't know. He didn't give me a rundown while he had me pinned to the floor."



Her body language—rubbing her eye, looking away for a couple of seconds—shouted at deception. She knew what the man was after. Why didn't she tell him? Was there a connection to her dead husband?



"You're Daniel Riley with the Texas Rangers. I told the other Ranger last week I don't know who would have killed my husband or why someone would want him dead. Why would you think this has anything to do with Axle's murder?" She drew herself up straight, dropping her arms to her sides, her chin tilting up a notch.



They had casually met before since their families moved in the same social circles, and she was on the Alamo Planning Committee for the 175th anniversary celebration of the Battle of the Alamo in March. He'd spoken to the committee a few months back. But he really didn't know her. That would change after today. "Why are you so sure it doesn't? Your husband's remains were finally identified after he'd been missing for two years and the next week your house is broken into. Just a coincidence?"



"Yes. I've told Ranger Drew everything I know, which is nothing. Axle went out one evening and never returned.



That's all I know."



"Did anyone have a grudge against your husband?"



"Why are the Texas Rangers involved in the investigation? I would have thought the sheriff would be conducting the murder investigation. He's the one I reported to when my husband went missing two years ago."



"Your husband's murder may be tied to an investigation we're running."



"What?"



The doorbell's chime cut the tension vibrating between them.



"Excuse me." Relief washed over her face as she headed toward the foyer.



"That's the sheriff. I called in the make of the getaway car and its partial license number." Daniel trailed behind her, just in case it wasn't the sheriff.



She halted and looked back at him. "Good."



But that fear he'd glimpsed at the gravesite flickered across her face momentarily. She quickly continued her trek toward the door and opened it to the sheriff and a deputy.



Sheriff Karl Layton moved into the house after indicating to his deputy to check the grounds. "Melora, I understand there was a break-in here today."



"A man was here when I came home a little while ago."



"Where are your housekeeper and daughter?"



"Juanita took Kaitlyn to a play date with a friend. I had a meeting at the hospital with the ladies auxiliary."



"When will they be back?"



"Not for another hour."



"I'll try to make this quick. I'd hate to upset Kaitlyn any more."



"Thanks, Karl. I appreciate that." Melora indicated to the living room and Daniel standing in its entrance. "Ranger Riley managed to thwart the man. Nothing was taken that I can tell."



How would she know? She couldn't have checked. There hadn't been enough time. Daniel got the distinct feeling the woman wanted both him and the sheriff gone as quickly as possible. That wasn't going to happen. She wasn't getting rid of him that easily. Her husband had been involved in what was going on with the Lions of Texas. His body had been found buried at one of the organization's drug drop sites. Had he been a member of the group? Had he crossed them somehow? Did Melora know something about the Lions of Texas?



Daniel strode to where the knife lay on the floor and pointed at it. "The intruder dropped this before fleeing."



The color that had returned to Melora's face drained again as she looked at the weapon. She turned away, hugging her arms across her chest.



"Good. We'll check for fingerprints." The sheriff donned a latex glove and carefully picked up the knife to drop into an evidence bag.



"You probably won't find anything since he wore gloves, but maybe he was careless and we'll catch a break."



"It's happened before, and I'm always grateful when it does." Karl removed his cowboy hat and held it in his hands as he sat on a beige couch while Melora took the wingback chair across from him. "Can you tell me what happened? Anything about the man?"



She ran her long tapered fingers along her chin. "It happened so fast. I thought Patches had knocked over something in the living room. I came in to investigate. The next thing I know a man tackled me to the floor. The rest is a blur."

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My favorite ereader for a Mother's Day gift!

Apologies to all you Kindle fans, but I love my Nook.



I's mostly because I can read .epub and .pdb and .pdf files on it, whereas on Kindle you can only read .azw and .pdf files. Most of my ebooks are .pdb and .epub, and I didn't want to have to buy .azw versions of them all to read on a Kindle.



So when I heard about this special for Mother's Day, you knew I'd have to post about it, right??? The NookColor is kind of like a less expensive iPad because it has the touch screen.



Mother' Day NOOKcolor™ Promo (starts April 29th and ends May 5th)

Free Expedited Shipping on NOOKColor for Mother's Day - Hurry limited time offer only!





Or if Mom won't want a Nook but might want a book:

Excerpt - Mission: Out of Control by Susan May Warren

Mission: Out of Control

by

Susan May Warren



Brody "Wick" Wickham is a former Green Beret turned security agent—with a 100 percent mission success rate. No way is his new assignment changing that. Even if it's protecting a diva American rock star while she's on tour in Europe. Except Veronica "Vonya" Wagner isn't just a beautiful celebrity used to having her way—she's the daughter of a U.S. Senator. And she's hiding a dangerous secret. When Wick discovers what's at stake, how far over the line will he go to keep them both alive?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet on his so-called R & R?



Apparently Brody Wickham—ex-Green Beret, current on-leave security operator for Stryker International—had turned into a magnet for trouble, and he knew inside his gut that someone was going to get hurt.



Preferably not him.



Brody could spot the ugly future the second that Vonya—the one-name, brazen rock 'n' roll diva and the leader of the crazies inside this D.C. nightclub—stepped up to the edge of the stage and, with a feral scream, sprang into the outstretched hands of her minions.



Perhaps soared might be a better term, as she launched herself, arms flung out, like some sort of prehistoric animal in scaly black leather and a peacock mask, her garish pink wig a plume, into the undulating mosh pit.



Thankfully, anonymous hands caught Miss Crazy and floated her over the mass like a piece of bacon. It didn't mean this wouldn't end badly. With blood. Broken bones.



Death by stampede.



And Brody Wickham, off-duty bodyguard, simply couldn't let that happen, despite wanting to stay incognito in the shadows near the bar. He moved to the edge of the crowd, every muscle coiled. He'd guess that in about ten seconds, he'd have to plow through this mob and save her.



He should be sitting on a lawn chair in the backyard of his parents' suburban ranch home, catching up on the news of his eight brothers and sisters—most of whom he hadn't seen for nearly a decade. Or helping his parents decipher the foreclosure notice from the bank.



The music nearly shook the bricks from their mortar in the warehouse-turned-club, the perfect venue for Vonya's eccentric pulse, with its black Art Deco walls covered in skinny mirrors, disco lights dangling from the ceiling, and a round stage that thrust out into the audience.



Despite the cacophony of noise, he had to admit, Vonya had pipes. Brody wasn't so iron-eared as to not recognize the flash of talent in the tones that blew out of that petite body covered in leather and fishnet, even if he spent most of the night averting his eyes from her plunging minidress.



A random elbow connected with the soft tissue of his nose, stopping him cold at the fringes of the dancers.



Okay, what was he doing? This wasn't his gig, his battle. He didn't even know this impulsive woman, and nobody had asked him to be a hero today.



He was here for—



Lucy! She'd jumped right into the mosh pit, moving to the middle, pushing, shoving, bouncing off dancers twice her size.



Everything inside him pinged, his adrenaline rushing.



Oh, he'd known, just known, that his fifteen-year-old sister had no business at a Vonya concert, which was why he'd heard himself volunteering to take her when she appeared in a black-and-purple scoop-neck T-shirt, enough silver costume jewelry to sink a small ship, and skintight animal-print jeans.



And since when had his all-things-Catholic mother decided to say yes to the nose piercing? Clearly, he wasn't the only one who'd lost his mind.



Then again, his mother wouldn't be the first person to let someone talk her into something against her best judgment.



Only, her concessions didn't get people killed.



"You don't want to go to a Vonya concert," his sister had whined, shortly after his mother had tossed him the keys to her Subaru, more than a little relief in her eyes.



"I don't care about this Vonya chick—I care about you. Are you sure you don't need a…jacket? Or maybe a paper bag?"



Lucy shot him her best death-ray glare. "I'll just pretend I'm a celebrity. You can be my bodyguard."



"You know, I do sometimes bodyguard people for a living. I might know a few things about staying out of the way."



"Not at a Vonya concert," Lucy said. "I hate to tell you this, dude, but you're in way over your head."



Clearly. He kept his gaze on her as she bounced in the center of the mosh—



She went down.



"Make a hole!" Brody shoved toward her, his blood hot in his veins. By the time he reached her, Lucy had surfaced, her face flushed, holding her nose. Blood dripped out between her fingers.



Okay, that was it. He glanced once at Vonya, saw her riding the wave, then wrapped his hand around Lucy's arm. "We're leaving." The so-called music ate his voice.



She yanked her arm away. "I'm fine!" Her painted eyes glittered.



He didn't have time to retort because the punk next to Lucy turned on him. "Leave her alone, dude!" He then threw his body—or perhaps someone threw him—against Brody.



Brody caught him, pushed him away.



Definitely time to egress.



He glanced once more at Vonya, his gut tight, trying to shake off the dread. With a gulp, the pit swallowed her whole.



See? Someone should have stopped the madness long before this.



The crowd swelled around her, people pushing, chaos breaking free, bodies tumbling, screaming ripping through the club.



"Brody!" Fear showed in Lucy's wide eyes.



Brody wrapped his arms around her, pushing them both out of the crowd. "You okay?"



She nodded, still protecting her nose.



Perfect. So much for bringing his sister home in one piece.



"Go to the bathroom and get cleaned up. Stay away from the crowd!" He had to shout inches from her face, but even as Lucy nodded, his attention pulled back to the mob.



No Vonya. But screams and grunts emitted over the microphone, and even the band members had stopped playing.



"Go!" he yelled to Lucy, and plowed back into the violence.



Another elbow to the gut nearly blew out his breath, but he moved with the purpose of a ground assault, shoving bodies aside, protecting his face as he waded through to Vonya's last known position.



Nothing, although he did manage to haul to their feet two women and a very skinny kid.



He made it all the way to the man-size speaker…and spotted a flash of pink huddled behind the equipment.



Vonya crouched, holding her left arm curled tight to herself. Despite the black makeup, the weird peacock mask, the bright pink Marilyn Monroe-style hairdo, and the scaly leather dress, he recognized a woman shaken.



Not that it took a psychologist to figure it out—her mask hung torn from her face and she stared up at him like he might be the boogeyman.



So he didn't stop to focus, analyze or plan. Didn't stop to think through his actions. Just bent down, slipped his arms around her and swooped her up.



"Hey! What are you doing?" She twisted in his arms, eyes wide.



"What does it look like?" he said into her ear, as he pushed through the hysterical crowd toward the back entrance. "Trying to save your pretty little neck."



"Call 911, tell them things are out of control!" she said, twisting in his arms as if wanting to run back into the mess.



"You should have thought of that before you threw yourself into the audience."



She stiffened. "I'm okay. You can put me down."



"Not quite yet, honey."



But he looked at her then. She seemed more petite up close with her crazy pink hair and false eyelashes, and she swallowed back something that looked like shame.



Then he kicked open the back door and freed them to the alley.



"I said, put me down!" No problem.



Unfortunately, her words came out timed perfectly for the paparazzi, who got a million-dollar shot of him flinching as she landed an openhanded smack across his face.



Of course she'd been summoned by the senator. Ronie finger-combed her sea-sticky hair as she sat in the backseat of the limousine, her trench coat tucked around her, trying to chase from her bones the last of the chill from the choppy ferry ride to Martha's Vineyard. Her father's voice on her machine rang in her memory.



"Sounds like you made a real spectacle of yourself this time, Vonya. Your mother and I want a word with you. I'll expect you at the beach house this weekend"



Of course he expected her. But at twenty-eight, she thought she might be strong enough to resist his summons.



Well, she might be if she weren't broke and needing the senator's goodwill in the form of financial backing for her upcoming European tour, aka rescue mission.



She'd saved the text message from the Bishop and now ran her thumb over her cell in her pocket. Found him. Thank You, God.



Her throat tightened even as she stared out at the ocean, at the frothy waves clawing the shore. Please let the senator be in a good mood.



The limo turned into the long drive toward Harthaven, past the weathered split-rail fencing, the green-carpeted pastures. A couple of her mother's thoroughbreds lifted their heads as if in greeting. The tires ground against the gravel until the car pulled up at the front door.



"Nice to see you again, Miss Veronica," the driver said, as he opened her door.



"You, too, Mr. Henley." She lifted her messenger bag from the seat and stood for a moment in front of the ancestral home, two centuries of age in its weathered cedar shakes. Out of habit her eyes went to Savannah's tiny, empty attic window.



"Veronica, you made it!" Her mother's voice emerged first as she exited the house, crossed the porch and descended the front steps. Ellie Wagner looked about twenty-five, with her long brown hair held back in a ponytail, and her brown riding pants and pink blouse. She held her helmet, with a pair of gloves shoved inside, against her hip. "I was just leaving for a quick ride. I'll be back in time for dinner." She pecked her daughter on the check as she breezed by. "Oh, we'll be dressing for dinner tonight, but your father would like to see you for drinks in the study at six o'clock."



"I don't drink." Never had, really. And never mind that she hadn't called herself Veronica since her sophomore year in college.



But it didn't matter. Her mother waved her gloves and disappeared around the corner to the stable.



"No problem, Mother, I'm down with that," she said to the brisk island air.



She kept a standard little black dress and a strand of pearls in the closet just for Saturday nights at Harthaven. Her fans wouldn't have a prayer of recognizing her.



Sometimes, after a concert, she didn't even recognize herself.



Six p.m. The hour of execution, when she had to discard herself of all things Vonya and climb back into the expectations of her upbringing. But no one could ever accuse her, Veronica Stanton Wagner, of not knowing how to adapt. She'd eaten Zong Zing with the ambassador to China, challenged the sons of the prime minister of Nepal to a game of Bagh Chal, learned to play the djembe from a musical troupe from Ghana, and could speak, although poorly, snippets of Portuguese, thanks to the young wife of the United Nations representative from Brazil.



She could probably manage to behave like a proper lady tonight at dinner. Especially if it meant erasing from her father's recent memory the newspaper photo of Vonya laying her palm across a very handsome, yet downright surly, self-appointed bodyguard after last Saturday's debacle.



Yeah, well, she'd been a victim one too many times of a crazy fan. And one very dangerous stalker. How was she to know he actually wanted to help her?



She could still see his shock as he recoiled, then the growl that flashed into his eyes as he'd gritted his teeth and set her down.



Stabilized her as she rocked on those lethal five-inch heels.



No, not a fan. Thankfully, he hadn't let loose the words behind the disgust that flashed across his face.



But the derision from the stranger hurt, she had to admit it.



Or not a stranger anymore. Brody Wickham. She'd discovered his name after her frantic manager found them returning from the alley. Tommy D had decided to make him a national—or at least music-industry—hero.



She longed to forget him, hating the way he and his condemnation stuck in her brain. In fact, she thought she'd escaped the claw of shame long ago.



Clearly not. And it didn't help that Brody Wickham cast a steely, almost annoyed image across national airwaves and onto prime-time entertainment shows when he announced that he'd simply been trying to keep her from hurting herself.



Nice.



Except maybe he'd been right. She still sported a greenish-black bruise on her arm.



Oh, given the choice, she would rather have holed up in her SoHo loft this weekend with a bowl of popcorn and her keyboard to work on a new song. But she couldn't rightly beg for money over the phone, or even through email. Senator Wagner wouldn't want to miss the pleasure of staring her down and making her feel fifteen and a failure.



Just once, she'd like to be twenty-eight, smart and beautiful.



But this little excursion wasn't for her. Or even for the senator. And life didn't always hand out choices.



An hour later, Ronie gave a last survey in the mirror—short brown hair curled into tiny ringlets around her head, the barest dusting of makeup, a little lip gloss, a touch of lime eye shadow. She appeared, well, wholesome.



She didn't exactly hate the look.



The smells of a pot roast, or maybe lamb with rosemary, tugged her down the stairs. Stopping off in the kitchen, she sneaked a fresh roll from a basket on the counter, earning a growl from Marguerite, their weekend housekeeper, and tore it into tiny pieces as she walked toward her father's study.



The melodies of Tchaikovsky escaped through the cracked open door. She eased it open.



Tripp Wagner stood with his back to her, an outline of power as he stared out the window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had begun to darken the pond and seep across the grass. Only a glimmer of light sprinkled through the pines that ringed their property. Sometimes she wished they had beachfront property, where they could watch the sun sink like a fiery ball behind the sandy dunes.



"Father?"



"Come in, Veronica."



Ronie stepped inside the study. A desk lamp puddled orange over the leather blotter on the mahogany desk. His briefcase lay on the credenza, under a family picture, now nearly fifteen years old. Ronie barely glanced at it, not really recognizing any of the four of them.



"You can help yourself to a drink." He gestured with a glass of something amber—bourbon, probably—still not turning from the window.



"I still don't drink alcohol, Father," she said, but moved over to the bar and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice. It helped to have something to hold on to when the senator began his orations.



"Not that anyone would ever know."



She braced herself.



"Sometimes, I can't believe that is actually my daughter making a spectacle of—No. I promised your mother." He sighed, turned and, for the first time, let his eyes rest on her. She stifled a tremble, not because he frightened her—well, not much, anymore—but because she saw in his hazel-green eyes such sadness, it filled her throat with something scratchy and hard.



"Sorry," she mumbled. "It's part of the act."

Print book:

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Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Christianbook.com

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Borders.com



Ebook:

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Nookbook

Kindle

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Heart-Attack-Inducing Scones

Captain's Log, Stardate 04.28.2011



Some of you will recognize the photo from my Facebook page yesterday. Yes, I made scones.



Many of you know how much I loooooooove English High Tea (which, as my British friends tell me, most Brits don't really do very often at all). I adore tea and scones. And Devonshire cream and jam. My favorite High Tea restaurant is Lisa's Tea Treasures, one at the Pruneyard and one at Santana Row. They both have the most AWESOME scones on the planet.



I have tried making scones lots of times and just could never seem to get them to taste like the Lisa's Tea Treasures scones. Then I was reading Sandie Bricker's novel, Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride for endorsement, and she has this amazing blueberry scones recipe that uses butter and cream. So naturally I had to make them.



I did not have blueberries, although I anticipate getting strawberries in my co-op delivery on Friday, so I will make the scones again with strawberries on Friday. :) But even without the blueberries, OH MY GOSH the scones turned out amazing! I guess it helps that the recipe has twice the butter of the other scones recipe I was using, and uses whipping cream instead of milk.



The neato pan in the picture is one I bought at Williams-Sonoma, and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to have it. Making scones is a BREEZE with this pan because I don't have to roll out the dough, I just smash it into the sections and then bake it. Plus the pan has a non-stick coating, so I only need a little butter in each section to make the scones slip right out. Then again, this time I used so much butter in the recipe, maybe I didn't need the butter in the pan after all …



Regardless, I scarfed down 5 of those puppies in a couple hours with my pot of tea, which was Thé Au Chocolat made by my favorite tea store, Lupicia. I paired my scones (like the butter wasn't enough) with apricot preserves. I was in heaven!!!!



I have GOT to find a way to put these scones in a book. I'm working on a new Love Inspired Suspense proposal. Maybe I'll have my hero's mother make these.



I was asked to post the recipe, so here it is, but be aware that they were a little too salty, so the next time I make them, I'll probably reduce the salt. The recipe was cobbled together from Sandie's recipe and a recipe from an old Time-Life book on British cooking.



Heart-Attack-Inducing Scones



2 ½ cups flour

3 ½ teaspoons baking powder

2 ½ teaspoons salt (this is too much salt if you use regular salted butter; next time, I'll either use less salt or use unsalted butter)

1 tablespoon sugar

8 tablespoons butter (yes you read that right, that's one stick of butter)

¾ cup heavy whipping cream



Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter the scone pan or whatever pan you're going to use for the scones.



Combine dry ingredients. Cut the butter into the dry ingredients until it resembles coarse meal.



Beat the egg with a whisk until it's frothy, then whisk in the cream. Pour over the flour mixture.



Toss together until dough forms a compact ball. The recipe has you roll it out on a lightly floured surface and cut into rounds, but I just tore off hunks of dough and stuffed them into my scones pan. They made 16 triangles perfectly, or if you cut them into rounds, they should make 12 rounds.



Bake for 15-18 minutes, until light brown.

Excerpt - Double Identity by Diane Burke

Double Identity

by

Diane Burke



Sophie Clarkston is shocked to learn that she isn't who she thinks. Her birth certificate is forged. Her name—made up. And her widowed "father" is suddenly missing, leaving behind a heartbreaking letter asking forgiveness. Desperate for answers, Sophie turns to private investigator Cain Garrison in tiny Promise, Virginia. But the moment they leave his office, her life is threatened and her home ransacked. Who is after her? And who, exactly, is she? With questions about his own past, Cain vows to help Sophie uncover the truth. Before someone comes out of the shadows to keep it hidden forever.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"According to this report, Miss Clarkston, you do not exist."



Cain Garrison looked up from the file folder lying on his desk. He had to admit he was intrigued. It had been quite a while since anyone had contracted his private investigator services for anything more than getting the goods on a cheating husband or following up on insurance fraud. Usually, it was so quiet in the small town of Promise, Virginia, that he found most of his work in neighboring counties or in the city of Charlottesville.



Tapping his index finger on the folder, he said, "Your birth certificate and social security card are phony." His eyes locked with hers. "Okay, I'll take the bait. Who are you really and what do you want from me?"



He leaned back in his chair and studied the petite young woman sitting in front of him. If he had to guess, he'd say she was in her early twenties. Thick ebony hair covered her shoulders and trailed down her back. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, sneakers and little, if any, makeup. But then she didn't need any.



She squared her shoulders. He might have bought into her calm-and-collected facade if he hadn't noticed her ramrod straight posture as she perched on the edge of her chair and her white knuckles from the tight clasp of her hands.



"My name is Sophia Joy Clarkston but everybody calls me Sophie. I was born twenty-two years ago to Elizabeth and Anthony Clarkston. My mother died in a car accident shortly after I was born. My dad raised me." Her lips pursed in distaste and she nodded toward the folder on his desk. "I don't care what lies are written on that piece of paper. I know who I am. I need you to find my dad."



Ahh, the plot thickens. Cain tried to hide the smile pulling at his lips. This must be his sister's idea of a prank. He'd been complaining lately about being bored. Voila. Phony case that she knew he'd salivate over. Okay, he'd play the game. Why not?



"Your dad's missing?"



Sophie chewed on her bottom lip and nodded. She smoothed her jeans, picking at pretend lint, trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness.



"Adults aren't usually considered missing, Miss Clarkston. My experience has taught me most people leave of their own volition, mostly because they're just tired of being where they are or with the people around them. How long ago did your father disappear and what makes you think this qualifies as a missing person case?"



"He's been gone two weeks now." She rummaged in the tote bag resting at her feet and withdrew a white piece of paper. "I received this letter a couple of days after he left."



Cain reached across the desk and accepted the letter from her hand. He knew from the crinkled and stained condition of the paper that the note had probably been crushed into a ball, tossed in the trash, only to be rescued, folded and put away for safekeeping. If the variety of stains meant anything, he was pretty sure this note had hit the trash can more than once. Whatever the contents, one thing was evident. This letter had created a seesaw of emotions in this woman.



He read the first line. He blinked hard and then read the first line again.



By the time you get this letter, I'll be dead.



Cain shot a look to Sophie. Sea-foam green eyes shimmering with an ocean depth of emotions stared back at him. Maybe this wasn't a prank. He focused his attention on the paper in his hands.



Sophie studied the man's face as he read the letter—again—for the third, maybe fourth time. His chiseled features revealed none of his thoughts or emotions. For all intents and purposes, it was easy to pretend he was one of her sculptures. An inanimate object, consisting of carved angles and sharp edges, incapable of emotion.



Unless, like herself, he'd learned how to bury those emotions.



She'd read the letter at least a hundred times in the past two weeks. It still had the power to make her feel like someone was physically ripping her heart out of her chest. What had her dad been thinking? Why hadn't he confided in her? Trusted her? Maybe she could have helped him.



A flush of anger swept over her. Didn't he know how frightened and worried she'd be at his sudden disappearance? How could he have done this to her? Just as quickly she was filled with remorse. She shouldn't be mad at him. Obviously, he wasn't thinking clearly. He was in trouble. Desperate and feeling alone. Pretty much like she was feeling right about now.



Sophie steadied her trembling hands. She needed to stay levelheaded. She refused to believe her dad was dead. If he was, she'd know, wouldn't she? There'd be a huge, aching void where her heart had been. Instead, all she felt was pain, fear and confusion.



He had to be alive. Nothing else was acceptable or compre-hendible. She had to find him before his words came true.



She drew in a deep, calming breath and tried to remain patient while the investigator continued reading. His body language indicated he was intrigued by the document in his hand. Subtle movements. Chewing his lower lip as he read. Fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the arm of his chair. A slight squinting of his eyes, fanning lines across his skin. How many times was he going to read the letter? She could recite it for him if he wanted. She knew each word by heart.



I am enclosing this gift as a token of my love.



Sophie's hand flew to the hand-carved wooden heart hanging around her neck. Her fingers traced an idle path along the intricate design.



I know you don't understand why I left without a word. But for your safety, I could not tell you then and don't dare tell you now.



For my safety? Mine?



Oh, Dad. What's going on? What do you mean you'll be dead? You can't be dead. You can't.



They're coming. I must hurry and say good-bye.



I am ready, princess. I am ready to go on that last great adventure each one of us inevitably takes.



Just know that I love you…with all my heart.



Her breathing quickened and her eyes flew to Cain Garrison. Was he going to take the case? She didn't know what she'd do if he turned her down. Would he be able to help? She'd tried everything she could think of and he was her last hope. She fidgeted in her seat. How much longer would he sit there staring at that rotten piece of paper that had caused her nothing but sorrow and anger?



Dear Lord, help me be patient. After all, I've had time to digest this nightmare. This man's had about six minutes.



The prayer came automatically, almost as if her mind didn't remember that she had stopped talking to God. He didn't answer prayers…or, at least, He didn't answer hers.



Sophie brushed her hair off her shoulders, letting it fall in waves down her back, and sat straighter in the soft leather chair. She could almost hear her dad's scolding voice from childhood. "Sophie Joy Clarkston, what's wrong with you? You're full of itches and twitches, girl."



Itches and twitches.



Sophie chewed on a fingernail and thought about the last time she'd seen her dad. After a late dinner they'd sat together on the front porch, listening to music, gazing at the stars, sharing idle conversation. She'd kissed him good-night and gone up to bed. The next morning she'd found a bag filled with money—a huge sum of money—lying on the table by her chair. He was gone. Without warning or word of any kind. Until two days later when the letter had arrived in the mail.



Her breath came in short, quick gasps and she felt like she was going to crawl out of her skin. She needed to distract herself. Fast.



Crossing to the window, she raised a slat and looked outside. Main Street consisted of four blocks of mom-and-pop stores, a restaurant or two, an insurance company, a pharmacy. A handful of passersby bustled past the window as they hurried about their business. A few people stood together on the sidewalk chatting.



Nothing scary.



Nothing ominous.



So why couldn't she shake the feeling that someone was watching her every move? Her nerves were shot. She hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks and it was starting to show.



"Forgive my rudeness, Ms. Clarkston," Cain said as he placed the letter on his desk and stood. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?"



"Coffee would be wonderful. Cream and sugar, please. And call me Sophie."



Blinking hard to hold back tears, she returned to her chair. She admired the professional yet welcoming atmosphere of the office as she looked around. Two brown leather chairs faced a highly polished mahogany desk. The tall cabinet on the far wall looked more like a fine piece of furniture than storage for files. A variety of plants and a large silk tree added an outdoor ambience to the room. Two framed professional investigator licenses hung on the wall to the left of heavy hunter-green drapes.



Two? In such a small town as Promise?



The deep, rich aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted from behind a silk screen standing in front of a small kitchen area. Sophie's stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't had any breakfast.or dinner the night before.



"One sugar or two?"



Sophie liked listening to the deep resonant tone of his voice. He seemed sure of himself, in control. And that's what she needed right now, someone to help control the chaos surrounding her.



"Two, please."



She watched him approach. His thick chestnut hair tumbled in an unkempt wave across his forehead, almost obscuring his vision, and she had to sit on her hands to control the absurd impulse she had to reach up and swipe it out of his eyes. He was handsome, sort of a young Johnny Depp look-alike, late twenties, maybe early thirties. If he was as good at his job as he was to look at, then she was definitely in the right place.



Cain winced as he carried the coffee mug to his client. The stiffness in his left leg shot a wave of pain into his hip.



He could feel her eyes boring into him as he limped across the room.



"Don't worry. It looks a lot worse than it is." He grinned and handed her a mug.



"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."



"Don't sweat it. You're simply wondering if you're spending your money wisely or if you've made a mistake."



"It's not that," she stammered.



"Of course it is." He grinned and perched his hip on the edge of the desk. "Never apologize for considering all the facts when making a business transaction." He slapped his leg. "I could joke and say it's an old war injury. In a way it probably is. A war wound from my undercover narcotics days when I worked for the Charlottesville police."



"I'm sorry."



"Don't be. You didn't do it." He slid off the edge of the desk and went back to his chair. "After my injury, they offered me a life behind a desk but that wasn't the life for me." He rapped on the desk. "Unless I own the desk, of course."



Her smile made him happy that his words had had their desired effect.



"How long have you been a private investigator?" Sophie asked.



"Three years now. My partner and I opened Garrison Investigations shortly after I moved back home. I decided I'd had enough of big-city living and wanted to return to my country roots."



"Pardon my rudeness, but I'm surprised you have a partner, Mr. Garrison. If I remember correctly, Promise is a very small town."



Cain grinned. "That's so true, Ms. Clarkston."



"Sophie…"



He nodded. "Sophie. My sister, Holly, is my partner. She runs the diner across the street. Serves the best home-cooked meals you've ever tasted. But every now and then when I run into a situation where a female touch would have more success, she steps in and helps out."



Sophie nodded her understanding.



He leaned back in his chair. "How did you hear about us? Yellow pages? Word of mouth?"



"You're listed in the Crossroads Church business directory."



"You attend Crossroads? I don't remember seeing you there. Not that I know everyone, of course, but it is a small community and newcomers have a tendency to be noticed."



"I haven't attended really. I've just arrived in town." She shifted in her seat, her eyes downcast. "Besides, the Lord and I aren't on speaking terms these days."



Cain tented his fingers in front of his lips to hide his smile. "That so? Yet you chose to get your business references from the church directory instead of the yellow pages?"



Color heightened in her cheeks.



"Where are you from?" Cain asked.



A shadow of hesitation crossed her face. "I'm a bit of a nomad. I don't call any one place home."



Cain tilted his head to the side and studied her bowed head. There were many layers and hidden secrets to Miss Sophie Clarkston. She intrigued him.



"Well, let me be one of the first to welcome you to Promise. I'm surprised you found us," he said. "But I'm glad you did."



"I'm familiar with Promise, Mr. Garrison. My family has owned a small cottage about ten miles out of town for as long as I can remember. My dad and I travel extensively so we rarely stay in it, but if I had to call one place home, I guess Promise would qualify."



Cain rested his forearms on his desk. "Tell me about this letter."



She sipped her coffee then placed the mug on the desk. "I received the letter two days after my dad disappeared. The postmark made me think he came to the cottage. If he did, he didn't stay."



The pain he saw in her eyes stirred him.



"Has your father ever done anything like this before?"



"No. Definitely not. My father would never hurt me."



Cain didn't bother to point out that that is exactly what he had just done.



"It's always been just me and my dad," Sophie said. "He's hardworking, kind, loving. He has a strong belief in God and lives his life modeling his faith. I don't understand. He never would have left me without a word. Never. Unless he had no other choice. I need your help, Mr. Garrison. I need to know what happened to my dad."



"Call me Cain. In this small town, Mr. Garrison is still my father's name." He grabbed a tablet and pen out of his side desk drawer. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" He made a few notations on the paper and asked without looking up, "I assume when your dad disappeared you notified the police." Her hesitation caused him to look up.



"Yes." She squirmed in her seat and didn't make eye contact with him. "At first, they weren't much help. It's not against the law for an adult to decide to leave. When I got this letter, I tried to convince them that he was in danger and we needed to find him."

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Excerpt - Face of Danger by Valerie Hansen

Face of Danger

by

Valerie Hansen



Giving murder victims a face is forensic artist Paige Bryant's specialty. She can always put the pieces together. But her work turns dangerous when Texas Ranger Cade Jarvis brings her a special project related to the notorious Lions of Texas. Identifying the victim could help with the ongoing search for the murderer of Cade's boss…yet it also draws deadly attention to Paige. As she contends with attack after attack with only Cade's protection, the two of them draw closer together, learn to open their hearts…and struggle to identify the face of danger before it's too late.



Excerpt of chapter one:





Texas Ranger Cade Jarvis gripped the wheel of his pickup truck, his neck and shoulder muscles knotting. He was on the most important mission of his career and nothing was going to stop him from reaching Austin. Nothing.



His glance darted to the rearview mirror. He'd been keeping an eye on the erratic movements of a set of headlights approaching behind him. The SUV was speeding, cutting in and out of the heavy traffic as if that driver thought he was on a racetrack instead of the highway.



Cade tensed. The guy was crowding everyone he passed and scattering them like a flock of scared chickens.



The dark SUV drew parallel with his truck and swerved toward him. Cade sounded his horn. There was no discernible reaction from the speeder.



Cade managed to avoid physical contact once, twice. Again. He muttered, "Sober up before you kill us both," and clenched his teeth.



The SUV matched him move for move while other drivers did their best to distance themselves from the obvious confrontation.



The reckless driver closed the sideways gap so abruptly, so forcefully, Cade couldn't dodge this time. The sound of rending, crushing, sliding metal against metal squealed through the cold November night.



Hitting his brakes, Cade braced for an even worse collision. He glanced over at the evidence case resting next to him on the seat and prayed instinctively, "Dear God. Don't let anything stop me from getting that to the forensic artist."



Tires sliding, truck body slewing sideways, Cade felt his front bumper clip the supporting post of a highway sign. The pickup's chassis did a 180 and ended up half on and half off the road, facing oncoming traffic, before Cade was finally able to bring it to a stop.



The high, bright headlights of an eighteen-wheeler were bearing down on him. He could hear the semi's air horn blasting, its brakes locking and tires squealing. Throwing his arms over his face, he prayed he'd live through the next few seconds.



The usually busy Texas Ranger headquarters building in Austin was quiet—except for the beating of Paige Bryant's heart and her niggling feeling that something wasn't quite right.



"Stop it. Just stop it. You're being silly," the forensic artist told herself as she leaned out of her studio and peered down the empty hallway. It looked as though everyone in that part of the office had already gone home for the night. Which was where she should be. Where she would be if she weren't waiting for a delivery.



She closed her office door and began to pace. It was only about seventy-five miles from Company D in San Antonio to this main Ranger office in Austin, and easy, highway driving almost all the way. What could be keeping that Ranger? She didn't know Cade Jarvis well, but the few times they had met she'd been favorably impressed.



Paige huffed, disgusted with herself. Impressed? Boy, was that an understatement. If Ranger Jarvis was half as good-looking as she recalled, he'd be attractive enough to curl her toes. He stood nearly six feet tall, with dusky blond hair and mischievous eyes the color of warm mocha java. And when he smiled, the fine lines of an outdoorsman crinkled at the corners of those appealing eyes, though she doubted the man was much over thirty, if that.



She was about to give up on him and head for home when her phone rang. She snatched it up before the second ring. "Hello?"



"Ms. Bryant? This is Cade Jarvis," the slightly breathless male voice said. "I'm going to be a little late."



He was already more than a little late but something in his tone gave Paige pause and made her ask, "Are you all right?"



"Boy, news travels fast."



"I beg your pardon?" It was becoming clear to Paige that this call was not the result of a normal travel delay. "What news? What's happened?"



"I was run off the road not far from there."



Her free hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened. "Oh, no! Are you all right?"



"Fine. Actually, I'm in better shape than my truck is. It would have been a lot worse if other drivers hadn't steered around me after I spun out. As soon as the troopers finish their report, I'll hitch a ride with one of them and have him drop me at your office."



"Are you sure you're okay?"



"Yeah. Thankfully, there's no problem with the remains I'm bringing you, either. I had the skull packed in a padded evidence bag, so it wasn't damaged by the collision. I figured you'd probably make a composite copy to model the clay over, anyway, but I'd still like to get it to you in one piece."



"It is a lot easier—and more accurate—if I don't have to work with an original that starts out looking like a jigsaw puzzle." Still concerned, Paige paused. "Listen, if you tell me exactly where you are, I'll be glad to drive over and get you."



"That won't be necessary."



"I don't mind. It would give me a chance to peek at the evidence, too. I know how important it is to ID that victim ASAP."



The Ranger's chuckle struck her as sounding a bit cynical. When he spoke she was certain. "Oh, I get it. It's not me you're worried about, it's these bones."



"I didn't mean anything of the kind." Glad he couldn't see her blush, Paige realized she was embarrassed by how close he'd come to the truth. "I do care about my job," she insisted. "A lot. But that doesn't mean I don't care about living people, too."



"Hey, I was just teasing. No offense meant, ma'am."



Whew. "None taken. So, do you want me to come get you or do you think you'll be here fairly soon?"



"Hold on a sec."



While she waited, Paige listened to a hodgepodge of muted conversations in the background. Between the overlap of voices and the humming traffic noise, it was hard to pick out individual words, at least not well enough to tell what was being said.



"Ma'am? You still there?" Cade finally asked.



"Yes. What did you decide?"



"One of the troopers will give me a ride while they haul my truck in so the lab boys can take paint samples from the parts that were sideswiped. I should be at your office within a half hour. Do you mind waiting just a little longer?"



"Not at all. See you soon."



Hanging up, Paige busied herself tidying her office and trying to catch up on paperwork. Details like that always fell by the wayside when she was concentrating on drawing or sculpting the faces of nameless victims. Victims just like her sister.



Paige purposely tried to redirect her thoughts. There was nothing to be gained by beating herself up over past events. Amy was gone. Had been for sixteen years. The pretty three-year-old would probably never be located, alive or otherwise, and there was no way to change what had happened no matter how much Paige wished otherwise.



She pulled herself together and lifted her chin. "It wasn't my fault," she whispered into the silence. "I did my best to help her."



That was true. And now she reached out to other victims of horrendous crimes and gave them faces. Gave their families closure and a chance at justice. What she did was more than a job. It was her calling.



It was also her atonement.

* * *Cade thanked the trooper for the lift, squared his white cowboy hat on his head and straightened his tie before heading toward the main Ranger headquarters. He smiled when he saw a slim woman in jeans and a denim jacket waiting for him next to the rear entrance.



"Ms. Bryant?"



"That's me. We have met before, you know." She extended her hand and Cade shook it. "In San Antonio."



"I do remember you. It's just kind of dark out here and I wasn't positive."



Actually, he'd recalled very little about the Rangers' only forensic artist other than her being in her mid-twenties and having long, dark hair that she'd kept tightly gathered at the nape of her neck. Add to that the plain, half glasses she'd worn for close work and the woman had been the spitting image of a stern schoolmarm in an old Western movie.



When he saw her this time he immediately changed his mind. Paige Bryant was lovely, with expressive green eyes and long, loosely swinging dark hair that rippled around her shoulders and brushed against her cheeks as she tilted her head.



"I waited out here for you because I figured you didn't have a key card for this door."



"You're right. Thanks."



"Is that the victim you told me about?" she asked, eyeing the blue, cubelike case.



"Yes." Sweeping his free arm toward the door he said, "Shall we? It's cold out here and I know you're anxious to see what I've brought you."



She slid her card through the reader next to the outer door and led the way to her office.



Cade had never visited this particular room before so he was taken aback. It looked more like a cozy artist's studio than it did a scientific laboratory. He spotted several computers at work stations and a small, boxy, black machine he didn't recognize. Beyond that, the place was arrayed in a personal, extremely artistic manner.



There were rows of framed pictures of faces on one wall, a window on another and tall filing cabinets on the third. Beside them hung a painting of an ethereal-looking child whose face seemed to drift in the mist of the artist's imagination.



Cade set the case on the nearest table and approached the painting while Paige removed her jacket. "This picture is amazing. Did you paint it?"



"Yes." She was unzipping the carrying bag as she spoke. "Tell me again what you know about this victim."



"Not a whole lot," Cade replied as he joined her. "We're pretty sure he's tied to Gregory Pike's murder. We just can't prove exactly how."



"I guessed as much when I was told to drop everything and give your case my full attention," she said with evident empathy. "We're all still in shock after what happened to Captain Pike. How's the rest of that investigation coming along? Any hits on the sketch I made from his daughter Corinna's description of her stalker?"



Cade nodded soberly. "Yes. We got him."



"Wonderful. How about the likenesses I created from my photos of the man in the coma?"



"Those helped, too. We still don't know his name, but a witness saw the pictures and came forward with some information."



"So, what do you know?"



"He's Irish. The witness remembered his brogue."



"Good. At least that's a start."



"Yeah. A mighty slow one." Cade sighed. "Greg was special. He was more than my superior, he was my friend and mentor. I owed him plenty. Still do."



Paige donned latex gloves and carefully lifted the skull, supporting the lower jaw as she turned the relic in her hands to assess it. "I'm confused. What makes you think this death is associated with Captain Pike's? Under normal conditions it can take from six months to a year to reduce human remains to a skeletal state. This man must have died long before the captain was killed."



Cade nodded. "The Lions of Texas drug cartel is the link. It has to be. Did you know that Pike had ordered all of Company D to rendezvous at his house just before he was shot and killed?"



"Yes. Corinna told me all about it while I was making the sketch of the man who broke into her house. Did you ever figure out what her father was so eager to tell all the other Rangers?"



"We have an idea. Apparently, the Lions were afraid there was incriminating evidence in the house. They sent someone to retrieve it, and Corinna interrupted. Since she could ID him, he decided to take her out."



"Poor Corinna. Is she all right?"



"Yes. Now she is. When we finally nabbed her stalker, he told us he worked for the Lions and mentioned a drug drop site the Lions were still using. We put a Ranger undercover and staked it out, hoping to catch them in the act."



"Did you?"



"In a manner of speaking. We may have gotten something better." He pointed. "The skull you're holding was dug up on that property while we had it under surveillance. It's too big a coincidence to overlook. There has to be a connection between that murder and the drug cartel."



"Were you able to arrest anyone at the grave site?"



"Not at that time, but it worked out in the end. All we got at first was the jacket of the guy who was trying to retrieve the skull. Later, a man named Greco came after Jennifer Rodgers, the woman who owns the property on which the drop site and skull were located. Greco was killed by the Ranger we had working undercover there."



"Uh-oh. He didn't talk first?"



"No." Cade frowned and gestured at the skull. "If you can help us ID this guy, we may be able to make more progress than we have lately."



"What about the guy in the coma? Could he have been a secret informant for Captain Pike? He was found shot at the house alongside Pike's body, right?"



"Yeah. He's still in a coma so we can't question him, although we do have hope he may recover. They say he moved his fingers slightly. All we have to work with right now is his photo and the fact that he's Irish."



Cade tilted his head toward the skull she was holding so gingerly. "Which leaves that as our only other clue at present. That's why it's so important. So important that I've been ordered to stick around until you finish the facial reconstruct—"



Without any warning, all the overhead lights blinked off.



Cade heard Paige gasp.



"Hold your horses," he said. "I'm sure it's nothing. The emergency generator should kick on in a few seconds."



"I wonder. Look outside. The lights in the parking lot are still working."



Cade's right hand instinctively went to his gun, his palm resting on the grip, his thumb unsnapping the tab that kept it in the holster. "You're right. Stay where you are. I'll go have a look around."



He heard shuffling. Then she grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket.



"I'm going with you."



"Don't be silly."



"The silly part is how afraid I get when it's totally dark. Either you take me with you or I'll probably panic and get hysterical." She drew a noisy, shaky breath. "I mean it. I know it's stupid and irrational but I'm really, really scared."



"Okay. You can come. Grab the evidence. We're not leaving it unguarded."



He heard the slide of a zipper as she closed the carrying case. Now that his vision had adjusted more to the darkness he could see enough via the reflected exterior lights to move around safely, even in such unfamiliar territory.



"Got it," Paige said. "I'm ready."



Judging by the quaver in her tone she was truly frightened.

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Street Team Book List excerpt - MINE IS THE NIGHT by Liz Curtis Higgs

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!





Today's Wild Card author is:

Liz Curtis Higgs

and the book:

Mine Is the Night WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011) ***Special thanks to Cindy Brovsky of Random House Inc. for sending me a review copy.***



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Liz Curtis Higgs is the author of 28 books with three million copies in print, including: her best-selling historical novels, Here Burns My Candle, Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose, Christy Award-winner Whence Came a Prince, Grace in Thine Eyes, a Christy Award finalist, and Here Burns My Candle, a RT Book Reviews Award finalist; My Heart's in the Lowlands: Ten Days in Bonny Scotland, an armchair travel guide to Galloway; and her contemporary novels, Mixed Signals, a Rita Award finalist, and Bookends, a Christy Award finalist.



Visit the author's website. You'll also find her on Facebook and Twitter.









SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

The emotional and spiritual journey that began with Here Burns My Candle (WaterBrook Press, 2010) soars to a triumphant finish in Mine Is the Night (WaterBrook Press, March 15, 2011) a dramatic and decidedly Scottish retelling of the biblical love story of Boaz and Ruth. A compelling tale of redemption and restoration, the latest novel from best-selling author Liz Curtis Higgs transports both story and reader to 18th century Scotland, where two widows are forced to begin anew.









Product Details:



List Price: $14.99

Paperback: 464 pages

Publisher: WaterBrook Press (March 15, 2011)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1400070023

ISBN-13: 978-1400070022



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:





Foul whisperings are abroad.



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE



Selkirkshire



26 April 1746



The distant hoofbeats were growing louder.



Elisabeth Kerr quickly pushed aside the curtain and leaned out the carriage window. A cool spring rain, borne on a blustery wind, stung her cheeks. She could not see the riders on horseback, hidden by the steep hill behind her. But she could hear them galloping hard, closing the gap.



Her mother-in-law seemed unconcerned, her attention drawn to the puddle forming at their feet. A frown creased her brow. "Do you mean for us to arrive in Selkirk even more disheveled than we already are?" Three long days of being jostled about in a cramped and dirty coach had left Marjory Kerr in a mood as foul as the weather.



"'Tis not the rain that concerns me." Elisabeth resumed her seat, feeling a bit unsteady. "No ordinary traveling party would ride with such haste."



Marjory's breath caught. "Surely you do not think—"



"I do."



Had they not heard the rumors at every inn and coaching halt? King George's men were scouring the countryside for anyone who'd aided bonny Prince Charlie in his disastrous bid to reclaim the British throne for the long-deposed Stuarts. Each whispered account was worse than the last. Wounded rebel soldiers clubbed to death. Houses burned with entire families inside. Wives and daughters ravished by British dragoons.



Help us, Lord. Please. Elisabeth slipped her arm round her mother-in-law's shoulders as she heard the riders crest the hill and bear down on them.



"We were almost home," Marjory fretted.



"The Lord will rescue us," Elisabeth said firmly, and then they were overtaken. A male voice cut through the rain-soaked air, and the carriage jarred to a halt.



Mr. Dewar, their round-bellied coachman, dropped from his perch and landed by the window with a grunt. He rocked back on his heels until he found his balance, then yanked open the carriage door without ceremony. "Beg yer pardon, leddies. The captain here would have a wird with ye."



Marjory's temper flared. "He cannot expect us to stand in the rain."



"On the contrary, madam." A British dragoon dismounted and rolled into view like a loaded cannon. His shoulders were broad, his legs short, his neck invisible. "I insist upon it. At once, if you please."



With a silent prayer for strength, Elisabeth gathered her hoops and maneuvered through the narrow carriage doorway. She was grateful for Mr. Dewar's hand as she stepped down, trying not to drag her skirts through the mud. Despite the evening gloom, her eyes traced the outline of a hillside town not far south. Almost home.



The captain, whom Elisabeth guessed to be about five-and-forty years, watched in stony silence as Marjory disembarked. His scarlet coat was drenched, his cuffed, black boots were covered with filth, and the soggy brim of his cocked hat bore a noticeable wave.



He was also shorter than Elisabeth had first imagined. When she lifted her head, making the most of her long neck, she was fully two inches taller than he. Some days she bemoaned her height but not this day.



By the time Marjory joined her on the roadside, a half-dozen uniformed men had crowded round. Broadswords hung at their sides, yet their scowls were far more menacing.



"Come now," Mr. Dewar said gruffly. "Ye've nae need to frighten my passengers. State yer business, and be done with it. We've little daylight left and less than a mile to travel."



"Selkirk is your destination?" The captain seemed disappointed. "Not many Highland rebels to be found there."



"'Tis a royal burgh," Marjory told him, her irritation showing. "Our townsfolk have been loyal to the crown for centuries."



Elisabeth shot her a guarded look. Have a care, dear Marjory.



The captain ignored her mother-in-law's comments, all the while studying their plain black gowns, a curious light in his eyes. "In mourning, are we? For husbands, I'll wager." He took a brazen step toward Elisabeth, standing entirely too close. "Tell me, lass. Did your men give their lives in service to King George? At Falkirk perhaps? Or Culloden?"



She could not risk a lie. Yet she could not speak the truth.



Please, Lord, give me the right words.



Elisabeth took a long, slow breath, then spoke from her heart. "Our brave men died at Falkirk honoring the King who has no equal."



He cocked one eyebrow. "Did they now?"



"Aye." She met the captain's gaze without flinching, well aware of which sovereign she had in mind. I am God, and there is none like me. She'd not lied. Nor had the dragoon grasped the truth behind her words: by divine right the crown belonged to Prince Charlie.



"No one compares to His Royal Highness, King George," he said expansively. "Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes."



Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he'd not ask their names. A list of royalist soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the British casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.



My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he'd wounded her, she'd loved him once and mourned him still.



Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. "My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—"



"We are not." Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. "A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—"



"Sir!" Marjory protested. "How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner."



His dragoons quickly closed ranks. "A lady?" one of them grumbled. "She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear."



The captain's expression darkened. "Aye, so she does." Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth's sleeve and turned back the fabric. "Where is it, lass? Where is your silk Jacobite rose?"



"You've no need to look." Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. "I haven't one."



Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. "The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie's favorite, was it not? I've plucked them off many a Highland rebel."



"I imagine you have." Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. "Are you quite satisfied?"



"Far from it, lass." The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it."

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

I'm done with my devotions!

Captain's Log, Stardate 04.08.2011



I was contracted to write several devotions for a book being published by Guideposts, called Mornings With Jesus, and I just finished them last night/this morning!

Street Team Book List excerpt - TEA FOR TWO by Trish Perry

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Tea For Two

Harvest House Publishers (April 1, 2011)

by Trish Perry



Zack Cooper tries his best to raise his children, but he's losing his grip on them in their teen years. They've both had scrapes with the local law.



Tea Shop owner Milly Jewel has the perfect woman in mind to help Zack. Counselor Tina Milano meets weekly at the tea shop with her women's group. Milly encourages Zack and Tina to work together to draw the teens back before they get in even hotter water. Milly never thought things might heat up between Zack and Tina. Or did she?



Tina's connections with the Middleburg police department prove a mixed blessing for Zack and his kids. Both her best friend and old boyfriend are officers on the force.



And when Tina's women's group gets wind of her personal pursuits and clashes, they want to help. The group's meetings at the tea shop take on a slightly different flavor. Tina wonders who, exactly, is counseling whom.



Although heroine Tina Milano and her women's group are mentioned in The Perfect Blend (the first book in this series), Tea for Two is where we meet her and hero Zack Cooper. I knew I would write this book while I wrote the first, so it was fun to plant a passing mention of Zack and Tina while I wrote Steph's story in The Perfect Blend. By the time I was able to write Tina and Zack's story, I was eager to unfold their lives, conflicts, and love. I hope readers will be eager to experience what happens to them!



A word from our Author: I started writing short stories—pretty bad ones. And I started taking creative writing courses to round out my degree. So I was in classes full of people just like me—lousy writers. But we were learning!



Then the Lord led me to a local writers' group, Capital Christian Writers, and the contacts and friends I made through CCW enriched my personal life and my writing life more than I can measure. Through CCW and through reading just about every book and magazine ever published by Writer's Digest, I started catching on. Now I'm writing full time and man oh man do I love it.



Before the writing began, I worked for attorneys in Washington, D. C. I worked for the Securities and Exchange Commission. And I was a stockbroker. A horrible stockbroker. How do people do that? Take responsibility for other people's financial futures? Yikes. I'm perfectly happy to take responsibility for the amount of time any one person wants to spend reading my books. If you enjoy the experience, then know that we both enjoyed it together. I love that about books.



In the midst of all that fretting over other people's money and writing about other people's lives, I racked up a few personal experiences myself. Some good, some bad, but all part of God's plan. Now I'm an empty nester living in Northern Virginia. My brilliantly funny son is in college. I have a savvy, gorgeous grown daughter, a charming son-in-law, and an amazing grandson.



Watch the Book Video:







Excerpt of chapter one:



CHAPTER ONE



    Zack Cooper wasn't your typical male, and he knew it. He couldn't simplify life by innately compartmentalizing its various issues. If something was wrong at home, that something tried to go with him when he left for work. And this rainy June morning, while he drove a delivery to Millicent's Tea Shop in downtown Middleburg, that something felt like a passenger sitting right there in the front seat of his truck. Or maybe like two passengers, since his teenagers, Dylan and Sherry, were what was wrong at home.

    He pulled his truck up in front of the tea shop and hurried to remove and keep dry two boxes of produce from underneath his truck bed's tarp. A chatty group of women walked toward the front door and blocked his path toward the shop's back door, so he waited for them to file into Milly's. He would have tipped his baseball cap were his hands free, but they didn't seem to notice him, anyway.

Most of the ladies shared umbrellas, squeezing together to avoid the rain. The lone woman at the end of the group, while the last to enter, somehow seemed in charge. As she neared Zack, she tilted her umbrella back to look at him.

    "I'm sorry. Excuse us."

    Zack experienced a momentary ability to compartmentalize. The kids were nowhere in his mind, just for that instant. Neither was work.

This was one great looking woman. Exotic, with that dark hair and those warm brown eyes. Even though he hadn't said a word, her lips tugged into a subtle smile, and she looked at him as if he had the driest wit imaginable.

On the contrary, he stood in the rain, holding fruit, and struggled to string words together. "Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean, yes. Or, no. No problem."

Her eyes twinkled at him right before she turned and entered the shop.

He shook his head and spoke aloud. "Real smooth, there, Zack." He headed around to the rear of the building.

Milly didn't answer the back door right away. Zack figured she was up front in the dining area, greeting the same ladies he had just passed. She expected his delivery this morning, though, so she probably unlocked the door for him. He shifted the boxes to one arm and was about to reach for the door knob with the other when he heard a sweet young voice from behind.

"Who's that handsome farmer? Locked out, are you?"

Zack turned to see Jane, Milly's assistant, dashing across the street toward him. He grinned at her as she tossed back the hood of her slicker and shook her fair, red hair. Like Milly, Jane always managed to sound upbeat. And both of them were from somewhere in England, so Zack always loved listening to them talk.

"Morning, Jane! I'm not sure if it's locked. Haven't tried the knob yet, but Milly didn't answer. I knocked with my elbow, though, so she might not have heard me."

Jane jangled a set of keys out of her purse, even while she reached for the knob. "Ah, there we go. Not locked."

Zack lifted his chin at her. "After you." The moment the door opened, he could smell the irresistible pastries freshly baked or still baking in one of the shop's ovens. He wondered if Jane could hear his stomach grumble. He'd missed breakfast this morning.

Milly walked back into the kitchen and broke into a warm smile as Jane and Zack entered.

"Sorry I'm late, Milly." Jane removed her slicker and swiftly exchanged it for an apron. "I'll never get used to how timid drivers get around here when a single drop of water falls from the sky."

Milly set a serving tray on the counter and pointed to a mat near the door. "Mind you dry your shoes off so you don't slip, Jane. You're just in time for Tina's group. Would you mind bringing them a pot of English Breakfast? Tina's asked for a tray of the apple-cranberry scones. To start, anyway."

Jane prepared the teapot, cups, and saucers. "Is Carmella with her today? I saw her over the weekend, and she said she didn't care how early in the morning they were meeting or what else they were ordering, she planned to get some of your little berry shortcakes before leaving."

"We'd better go ahead and whip up some cream, then." Milly turned her attention to Zack. "Oh, Zack, I'm sorry. Here, here." She patted the counter near the sink. "Set those right down. Such a wet morning for you! Do you have time for a cup of tea?"

She turned away and poured a cup without waiting for his answer.

"I appreciate it." Zack set the boxes of berries, cucumbers, and watercress on the spacious counter. He was always impressed with how tidy Milly's kitchen was, considering how much she produced in it. He removed his hat and tucked it in his back pocket. "Had another one of those mornings with the kids. Didn't get to enjoy my morning coffee, so I could use the caffeine." He took the delicate cup and saucer from her as if they were priceless museum pieces.

"Milk?" She stepped to the refrigerator, but he waved her off.

"No, this is great." He glanced toward the kitchen door, the one that led into the dining area. "You've got a good-sized group already, I see." He wasn't about to ask outright about that woman he saw earlier, but he wondered if she was Tina. Or Carmella.

"Yes, this is one of my regular groups. We have a few groups that come in on a scheduled basis."

He watched her prepare a three-tiered tray with lacy paper things and what he assumed were the scones she mentioned. His stomach growled again, and she looked up at him.

He grimaced. "Sorry."

She smiled and pulled a chair over to the counter. "Have a seat, young man. Something tells me you missed more than your coffee this morning."

Zack obeyed her, and she placed one of the scones on a fancy, flowered plate and retrieved a bowl of dense cream from the refrigerator.

    "Here, now. You start off with that, just as my ladies out front are going to do." She spooned a generous portion of the cream onto his plate. "We call this clotted cream. Use it like butter, only more generously. I think you'll like it. And if you want to try the little berry shortcakes Jane was talking about, you'll have to stick around a few minutes. Interested?"

    He shook his head as he bit into the amazingly perfect pastry. "Mmm." Apple cranberry. His new favorite combination. He quickly swallowed and washed it down with tea. "Can't stay, no. But wow, that's something!" He held up what was left of the scone. "I need to make a few more deliveries this morning before heading home. I got off to a late start."

    Milly had resumed her work, spooning the thick cream into a serving bowl. "You said the kids gave you a rough morning. Is everything all right?"

    He shrugged his shoulders as he swallowed another warm, savory bite. Without his asking, Milly placed another scone on his plate. "Thanks, Milly. No more after that. I really have to go." He sighed. "I don't know. Seems like one day Dylan and Sherry thought I was terrific. Their hero. And then suddenly I'm the enemy. We don't seem to be able to get through a single conversation without getting into an argument."

    "Typical teenaged issues?" Milly stopped working. "How old are they now?"

    "Dylan's seventeen. Sherry's fifteen-going-on-get-lost-Dad."

    Milly smiled. "I'm sure they—"

    Jane walked back into the kitchen. "You have those scones, Milly? Oh, great. Thanks." She took the tray and bowl of cream from Milly and grinned. "I was right. Carmella's already talked several of them into adding the shortcakes to today's order."

    "I'll get on it." Milly turned toward the refrigerator, and Zack stood. He hadn't finished his scones, but he had taken up enough of her time.

    "Let me get out of your way, Milly."

    "No, hold on a minute, Zack. Sit and finish. I want to give you a few goodies to bring home to the kids. We'll have them calling you a hero again in no time."

    He smiled and sat for awhile longer. "Thanks." He scratched at the back of his neck. "To tell you the truth, I don't know how much of the problem is teenaged growing pains and how much of it is the aftermath of their mother's leaving. I've never dealt with teenagers before."

    Milly nodded and placed several pastries in a box. "I wondered about that, too. How long since Maya left?"

    "Four years ago. Still not a word from her, but I've heard through the grapevine she's moved on from the guy she left with. Different guy now. I can understand her leaving me. I just don't know why a mother would leave her kids like that."

    Milly placed the box on the counter. "I imagine Dylan and Sherry wonder the same thing. Poor dears."

    Zack's cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. "'Scuse me, Milly."

His caller ID made him frown. It was smack in the middle of the school day.

    "Dylan? Aren't you supposed to stay off the phone during school hours?"

    "Um, I'm not at school. I, I need you to come get me."

    Zack stood. "Now what? Please tell me you didn't skip class again."

    "Dad, I'm at the police station. I've been arrested."    

Excerpt - The Journey by Wanda Brunstetter

The Journey

by

Wanda Brunstetter



Discover along with Titus Fisher how life can begin anew in Christian County, Kentucky. Moving from Pennsylvania, finding rewarding work, and leaving a broken romance behind is the best decision Titus ever made. But is he ready to consider love again when he meets two women: one who seems perfectly suited for any Amish man and one who challenges long held ideas of the woman's role. Who will Titus choose, and will it be the right choice?



Excerpt of chapter one:







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